


The Bearer of Bad News

by fyeahblackturtlenecks



Series: In the Pits of Angband [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Oops, Other, angbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyeahblackturtlenecks/pseuds/fyeahblackturtlenecks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No tale has told what Morgoth thought in his heart at the tidings that Fëanor, his bitterest foe, had brought a host out of the West."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bearer of Bad News

**Author's Note:**

> ...so I recently started reading the Silmarillion. Enough said.

_"No tale has told what Morgoth thought in his heart at the tidings that Fëanor, his bitterest foe, had brought a host out of the West."_

The lieutenant had always been partial to order, to loose ends tied up, to control. To vigilance. It had proved an invaluable skill in Aulë’s flaming forges, where the craft was delicate and the consequences for a mistake often grave. It had proved absolutely essential in the unchaining of Melkor, and the darkening of Valinor. It had served to keep Angband hidden in Melkor’s absence. Yes, his vigilance, his attention to detail, had always been his most useful quality.

It had not changed with Melkor’s return. If anything, as Melkor built and fortified and plotted, Sauron had sent forth even more watchmen. Sauron understood vulnerability; he understood that the Valar were entirely capable of coming for the both of them again. He understood that while the fortress was yet unfinished in its entirety, it was that much easier to take it. So Sauron watched the seas and rivers and passes. His men reported to him, and he in turn reported to Melkor of any and all movement among the people of Beleriand. In truth, the possibility of a host coming out of Valinor for the pair of them was greater than not.

Sauron was also often accurate in his assumptions. And he was accurate in this one—a host did follow from Valinor, but it was not of the Valar but of one perhaps even more despicable in his own eyes and Melkor’s both. The Orc who delivered the news looked nearly as dismayed as Sauron felt at hearing it. Provided that Orcs had the capacity to express dismay—facial expressions never had been their strong suit.

It was nothing, really, compared to what Melkor would feel when he found out. Sauron could not know the hurt the Vala had suffered at the hand of the Elf—the bitterness between them ran deep, that much Sauron could discern. Melkor had returned with the Silmarils in hand, and the injuries to prove it would stay with him forever. No doubt this Elf, this…Fëanor, would want his precious stones returned to him.

Sauron entered the throne room quietly, cautiously. (Of course there was a throne room—his lord would need a vantage point, would he not?) He did not fear the Dark Lord, though he once had, but he did not look forward to bringing bad news. Melkor looked almost peaceful for once, surveying the work of the past few days from a window. Thangorodrim rose before him, perhaps the greatest blatantly visible evidence of his power so far. The Silmarils, set in a crown of Sauron’s own creation, shone at Melkor’s brow. Their weight did not bend him, though it could have, though Sauron knew what it cost him to keep his head held high underneath the gems.

"Melkor." Sauron took a place next to the other, gazing out at the Vala’s work with him.

"Good to see that you still address me by name," he replied. Melkor sounded genuinely pleased. Sauron briefly remembered how, long ago, Melkor had insisted that his lieutenant never make himself seem servile to anyone, least of all the Vala himself. "Look," he said, directing Sauron’s attention into the distance. "It will belong to us," Melkor went on, giving the expanse of Beleriand a small smile.

Sauron reached down and took the other’s hand in his own. It was blackened with the traces the Silmarils had left behind, and Sauron ran his thumb gently over the scarred reminders of recent events. “I bring bad news,” he said, glancing from Melkor’s face to the distance outside. “My apologies in advance,” he added as Melkor raised an eyebrow in his direction. “One Fëanor, son of Finwë, marches his host from Valinor. It seems that he means to attack you directly.”

The Dark Lord’s hand tightened around his. Had he not been Maia, bones would have shattered. His other hand came to press against the window as he leaned forward. Glass cracked around his fingertips. “The Noldor have no right to this place,” he ground out. “He has no right to this domain. Our domain.” The cracks in the window spread, and in one sharp motion Melkor shattered the glass with his fist. Shards buried themselves in his hand, blood seeping from the wounds. He let it drip to the black stone floor.

Sauron glanced at the wounds, brows drawing together in in concern, but Melkor flinched away when he reached to take the hand. “Shall I send forth our own? A greeting for the Noldor?” The direct, vengeful rage Melkor so clearly felt was beyond his understanding, but Beleriand belonged to them, or soon would. Sauron understood possession, and besides, anyone who attacked the Dark Lord attacked Sauron by extension.

"We will drive them into the sea," Melkor hissed. "And send Manwë their heads on the talons of his precious eagles."

"That can be arranged," Sauron replied.

He was not surprised. Every dominion had to be defended at some point.


End file.
